Freewriting on the train: curing a fear of public transport

The green green green and curved roofs under the rain.
Tree spectators huddle like commuters on a platform.
Endless corrugation, divided land, foxgloves near girders.
Red bricks keep the land, patched and strangled.
Cow parsley slip through railings and the smell through air vents in tunnels.
Yarrow Mill, a redundant burner and Wedgewood blue silos -
bolts as large as babies heads, a caravan of Fleetwood's, an infirmary.
The wall hurls insults, like displaying peacocks, but I'm unconvinced.
Browning trees close to the line, pushing large daisies and ferns.
Enclaves of buttercups and rape, and still the foxgloves.
Billboard my life, resurrect it for all to see.
Swans abandoned in thought, haphazard on the stilled canal.
Green Zone, Blue Zone, Purple Zone, Pink Zone.
Always pink, the modern pinstripe and ties. That bind.
Windows with dream catchers and toys stacked up.
trees leaning away and haystacks precariously balance.
Bridges cross the motorway into fields - hard cored rainbows that end no where.
Weight Limit 32 Tonnes, chasing cars and ever the foxgloves in pink flashes.
Sheep camouflage in the dirty cream summer grass.
Cars in their crematorium, and truck heads nod in paddocks.
Plastic forcing tunnels, corrugated ends, the flat that returns to ridges.